


Undone

by Warp5Complex_Archivist



Category: Star Trek: Enterprise
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-03-01
Updated: 2006-03-01
Packaged: 2018-08-15 21:41:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8073682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Warp5Complex_Archivist/pseuds/Warp5Complex_Archivist
Summary: T'Pol's thoughts at the end of 3.15 "Harbinger." (03/07/2004)





	

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Kylie Lee, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Warp 5 Complex](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Warp_5_Complex), the software of which ceased to be maintained and created a security hazard. To make future maintenance and archive growth easier, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in August 2016. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but I may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Warp 5 Complex collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/Warp5Complex).

The tactical alert has ceased to sound, the alien having been captured by Lt. Reed and Major Hayes in Engineering. Mr. Reed has notified us of this fact and that Mr. Tucker has once more been injured and is unconscious.

My heart begins to pound uncontrollably. Just as I feel my control about to fail, I hear Mr. Tucker's voice in the background, issuing forth a series of colourful epithets. A palpable feeling of relief washes over me, and I close my eyes for a brief moment.

I open them, and glance about—no one has noticed, and my mask of impassivity once more falls into place.

This cannot go on.

The crisis having been averted, I return to my quarters to meditate. I have never needed to meditate as much and as long as I have over the last few months, and it has never been so ineffective.

This evening, instead of peace and resolution, I find confusion and guilt. What have I done? How can I possibly regain my dignity and self-respect? I am weak, irrational, just like the humans.

I try to summon the feelings of certainty and faith in the truth of Surak's teachings that kept me strong even after I had begun to doubt the motives of the High Command. They are gone, melting away in the remembered blue of his eyes, softness of his touch, warmth of his lips ...I blow out the meditation candles and crawl into my bed, shivering and alone.

* * *

I had succeeded in sleeping a few hours, a rough, unsettled sleep full of accusing voices and dreams of improbable events.

As I look at myself in the mirror, I find some inner strength. I must push him away, thoroughly and firmly. No admission of feelings, no more intimate neuropressure sessions. A smooth, professional relationship. By the time I reach the mess hall, I have formulated my strategy.

"Morning."

I am prepared, polite but impassive. "Commander."

"Some night," he says tentatively, and I reply, "Eventful," neutral, not encouraging further discussion. I ignore him as he approaches.

My tactics are ineffective as he seats himself across from me. "I don't know who did more damage to the engine, the alien or Malcolm,"

I study my tea. "How long before we can get underway?"

He rubs his face. "Another day at least." He squirms in his seat. "I—uh—I guess we should talk about what happened last night."

Finally I look at him. "I've been briefed on the situation," I say, deliberately misunderstanding him.

He looks briefly nonplussed. "I was referring to what happened between us, in your quarters?" I gaze at him, expressionlessly. After he stumbles over a few words, I go on the offence.

My next words are calculated to offend, to drive a wedge between us. He reacts with indignation and disbelief, and finally denial, as I had hoped.

As he utters, "In fact, we should probably just forget it ever happened," I find it necessary to look away into my tea in order to avoid revealing my reaction to those words. I have been successful, and my regrets begin to overwhelm me.

"It doesn't mean we can't keep doing the neuropressure though," he murmurs, and looks at me with a sidelong glance and a smile that makes my stomach flip.

He has me backed into a corner and he knows it. I should insist that the neuropressure is no longer appropriate, but as I return his gaze the twinkle in his eyes is unmistakable. If the events of last night meant nothing to me other than scientific investigation, then there is no logical reason to refuse to continue the sessions.

In that moment, I am undone.

I have not achieved the success I had feared, rather he once again read me, and this time, outmanoeuvred me. He has won this round. And I begin to think I may have met my match.


End file.
